


To Slice the Flesh of the Land

by IntrovertedbutBooksmart



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: America/England Feels (Hetalia), D:, Eating Disorders, I'm Sorry, ITALY!, M/M, Self-Harm, There's so much messed up America, maybe next time I'll just screw up Ger- no JapAN, nooooo, sorru
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-19 12:52:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10640238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntrovertedbutBooksmart/pseuds/IntrovertedbutBooksmart
Summary: "Oh, Alfred," England whispered, tightly wrapping a bandage against the deep cuts. "Why didn't you tell me...?"





	

**Author's Note:**

> Rhabdophobia- Fear of severe punishment while being criticized. { I.E.: Fear of being hit by an iron rod while being criticized.}
> 
> Chapter two is probably coming tomorrow. Or in an hour.
> 
> P.S.: I'm writing this based on my personal experience, but sorry if I happen to make a mistake.. (´･_･`)

  It started with a small thumbtack.

  Why? Well, he didn't want to go searching for an actual razor, and the thumbtack was just there. Almost  _m_ _ocking_ him _._  

  It started lightly, too.

  A bit of a scratch, here and there. Tiny little pinpricks and scars that were slicing deeper each time. He always drew blood from the miniscule wounds.

  He started wearing his bomber jacket more and more often, concealing the scars that slowly began to cover his skin. 

  After 2001, Alfred decided that a thumbtack wasn't going to cut it.

  So he started using a razor. It was sharp, and he could cut deeper with it. It relieved him to slash into his arms, his thighs, his back, or even his stomach. 

  Around 2005 he realized another issue with him:

  He was fucking  _fat._

  England was right. He felt disgusting and idiotic, just like England had said he was. England was  _always_ right about him. Always England. England. _England. **England.**_

  And it hurt.  _It hurt so much._ Alfred just stopped eating. Pain would strike him hard several days into starvation, and he'd be forced to eat. Like the fatass everyone said he was.

  Eventually he had enough. Maybe he'd starve himself for two days... And then eat as much as possible to stop the pain...

   _And then reverse it._

 __ He felt disgusting. Gross. Stupid. Alfred dug his fingers into the back of his throat, tears crawling down his face. He spat into the bowl, helpless sobs wracking his body. Blood dribbled across his skin, scars littering his shaking form.

  Oh, he's tried suicide. Dozens of desperate scars had been slashed deeply into his wrists previously, all leading to unsuccessful attempts. His people refused it, however, and America just stayed. 

  There were nightmares. Americans being shot, stabbed, tortured, abused. Schools being destroyed, Japanese planes dropping bombs, and those planes.

   _Those four goddamn planes._

Alfred had enough. California was burning, the economy was sluggish, he owed so, so much money, innocent civilians were being targeted...

  His new boss was actually right in a way.

  The American dream was dead. Or at least, it sure felt like it.

  And there was Arthur. Arthur who had laughed at his dreams, Arthur who had made fun of his stupidity, Arthur who had watched American people fall and laughed.

   He fucking  _laughed._

  He couldn't handle it. Alfred clutched the sides of the bowl, shaking and sobbing as he spat again, blood covering him. By now, scars covered almost every inch of his arms, thighs, back, and even stomach. Twisted scars that seemed to mock him, almost speaking.

   _'Come on, now,'_ they seemed to say.  _'Go a bit deeper. Cut a bit harder. Bleed a bit more...'_

And he did. He plunged the razor into his flesh, dragging it and ignoring the burning pain. He had long since collapsed onto the ground in a helpless pile of pity and pain. He just wanted to keel over and die. Alfred winced, tears blurring his vision as blood flowed all over him, onto the floor.

   _'Come on, now. Keep it up. You know you deserve it~'_

Yes. Yes he did deserve it. He deserved worse. He deserved all of his pain and more. Much, much more. 

  It came in waves.

   _'Come on, now. Fucking fatass._

_'Keep it up. You deserve it._

_'Stop being such a fucking pitiful waste of time._

_'Don't you ever think of yourself as anything higher than the useless crying son of a bitch you are.'_

All of the voices spoke in a familiar British accent. 

  But he had to admit, one stood out a bit.

   _'Alfred?'_

 That one sounded a bit... Closer.

  " _Alfred...?"_

The voice was startling realistic compared to the others.

  "Alfred!" 

  The sudden realization made him jump. _Shitshitshitshit...!_ Alfred quickly threw the razor away- he'd get a new one- and began to pull his jacket on, but to no avail. The damage had been done. And there at the door stood none other than Arthur Kirkland.

 

\---+---

 

  "Do you know,  _L’Angleterre,_ that one in ten Americans suffer from chronic depression?" Francis said this suddenly, out of the blue, apparently reading something on a rather new phone. A gift from Japan? Arthur looked up from his needlework, confused. "And why do you bring this up so suddenly?"

  "Hmmph. I just found it...." He hesitated. "Interesting." England frowned. "What are you trying to get at, frog?"

  "Oh, nothing. Just that Nations are reflections of their people, no?" Shifting somewhat uncomfortably, Arthur replied. "Does that have any matter, Francis? Why would you show concern for this... Subject?"

  France shrugged, scrolling down with his thumb. "Ah, and over three million suffer eating disorders..." Arthur set down his needlework, glaring at the Frenchman. "Let me see that," he growled, taking the phone and ignoring his protests. Francis had been on a National Institution site. It showed dangerously high rates of suicidal depression in Americans.

  "What were you even doing on here?" Arthur snarled, looking through the horrifying statistics. Francis attempted, but failed miserably, to take his phone back from the Englishman. The list continued. Depression, eating disorders, suicidal rates.... Why did a list like this even exist? Quickly reading through the rather concerning statistics, he eventually gave the Frenchman's phone back. "Fine," he growled. "Since you seem so concerned for America..." Arthur stood, brushing his coat and gathering the discarded needlework. 

  Francis rolled his eyes, huffing in annoyance. "I am not  _concerned_ for him. I was just.... Bored."

  "Bored, hmm?" England really just needed an excuse to get away from the frog. Although... He had noticed something. The way Alfred just... Was. The baggier clothes he wore. Longer sleeves. Skinnier frame. That dead look in his eyes. And the way that when he thought no one was looking, that expression he wore. Was it sadness? Or anger? Or hatred? England hadn't really thought much of these signs. But the more he thought of it...

  Arthur left the angered Frenchman behind, walking rather quickly. It'd take a few hours to fly to America. No, no, he wasn't flying just for Alfred. He hated to admit it, but America's landscape was actually very beautiful. And he hated himself for appreciating their many cultures and architecture. He especially hated that Texas was actually his favorite state of the many he's seen. He never let Alfred or Texas themselves know. They'd hold it over him for centuries.

  It all seemed to pass in a flash: Going to the airport, getting the ticket, waiting, boarding the plane... And all the while, he thought of Alfred. The more the thoughts manifested, the more suspicious he became. It felt like only seconds later when they landed. His entire body stiff and aching, Arthur stood and stretched, looking for the suitcase he hardly even remembered packing. It was small. 

  Alfred's house was, of course, in D.C. From where he landed, it'd be a bit of a drive. Arthur groaned, regretting his stupidity. He rented a car, transferring his money to American money. And he began the long drive immediately.

  His phone had been exploding with texts from Francis.

   _'Wait... You're not actually going, are you?_

_'Ha, ha, very funny. Answer me!_

_'Damn you... If you're on a plane, your boss is going to kill me!_

_'Wait, where did Italy come frodhfdjvjskxf_

_'Ve~! Germany is scary today~! Hello, England-san!'_

There were many more, certainly, but England just focused on driving. The sun was sinking, and reoccurring thoughts echoed throughout him. About Alfred. It felt like hours later when he made it to D.C. He could feel his energy draining steadily as Alfred's home came into view. Stiff and exhausted, Arthur walked up some rather clean steps towards the door. He knocked heavily. And then waited.

.

.

  There was no reply.

  He knocked again.

.

.

  No reply.

  This surprised Arthur. Usually, Alfred would be ecstatic and throw open the door. His vehicle was parked in the grand driveway, so Alfred had to be there. He began to worry, knocking louder. "Alfred?" He called. Still, no reply. Then he began to panic. It was too early for him to be asleep. What if something had happened to him? What if he... No. No! Alfred.. Alfred wouldn't do something like that. And he was immortal, anyway. But he still panicked. Unreasonably so.

  "Alfred, if you don't answer the damn door, I'm knocking it in! You git!" ...That was a bit extreme. After two minutes of waiting, Arthur lost it. In the back of his rental, he had received a spare tire and a crowbar. He reached for the crowbar, huffing angrily. "The bastard asked for it."

  He walked back towards the door, wedging the end of it where the handle was, grumbling about the situation. He pushed it, harder and harder until the locked snapped, the door swinging open. Yikes. He'd have to pay for that later. "Alfred?" He called.

  Yet again, no response. "Bloody wanker," he muttered, walking through the familiar, grand halls. He remembered the layout pretty well. The first bedroom... He opened the door. A guest room? No, Canada's guest room. He knew from experience that each country had a designated room. The Canadian flag hung above a tidy bed, hockey equipment in the corner, along with other similar decoration. He closed the door, moving to the next.

  It was a storage room of some sort. In the nearest corner, a familiar chest of toy soldiers. England couldn't help but sadly smile at the distant memories. Clearly, Alfred wouldn't be there. "Alfred?" Arthur called out again. The final room in the first hall was a bathroom, he knew. He realized that a sliver of light shone from beneath it. 

  Ah. He should be in there. ...There was this atmosphere that suddenly covered him. It felt tense. He pushed the door open quietly.

  And the sight on the ground in front of him was so horrifying, he nearly screamed. "Alfred!"

 

\---+---

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> “ψ(｀∇´)ψ


End file.
